


Undone

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, I'm just being polite, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Sort of? - Freeform, ack, this is basically pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 12:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: He's not sure how they skipped from a few pints in the pub after a hard case to this. His hands tugging Morse's shirt tails free, then pushing his shirt from his shoulders, mouths fused together like they need it to breathe.





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly being a bit too cautious with the rating, but I don't even know anymore! Let's give M a go.
> 
> I'm trying to write a longer Jarse fic and keep ending up with little bits and pieces that don't fit - this is one of those. As such, utterly plotless.

He's not sure how they skipped from a few pints in the pub after a hard case to this. His hands tugging Morse's shirt tails free, then pushing his shirt from his shoulders, mouths fused together like they need it to breathe.

Morse's fingers fumble with Peter's shirt buttons, and its stupid, but seeing clever Morse, undone – it sends a flare of heat through him. He lets his hands roam over bare skin. Morse gives up with the buttons and Peter smirks into the kiss. 

“Get your shirt off,” Morse mumbles into his mouth.

He's not complaining that they've ended up here. Just to make that clear.

“You get it off.”

Morse shakes his head, and Peter rolls his eyes but capitulates; seems he's going to have to do all the work. He steps back, out of reach and unbuttons his shirt cuffs carefully. Then he undoes his tie, pulling it from his collar with a yank, and turning to hang it neatly over a chair. When he turns back, Morse is perched on the edge of the table, arms crossed and watching. He'd meant the distance as a joke, a tease, but there's no humour in those blue eyes, just want. Lust. It stutters his hands, shaking as they pop button by button on his shirt front. He's got standards, unlike Morse, so he's wearing an undershirt too, white cotton parting only to show more white cotton. He slips the shirt from where his belt anchors it down, then down his arms, watching the way Morse's eyes trail the flow of the fabric and skin revealed. He shakes it out when its off, like a matador before a bull, and Morse's eyes flick up to his for a second before skittering away again, following a path over his collarbone, his shoulders, down his right arm. He folds the shirt, conscientiously, before draping it over the tie.

“Enjoying the show?” His voice is unexpectedly husky, and he almost expects a laugh in return, or some sort of sarcastic comment. He doesn't expect a slow, silent nod, and for Morse to bite on his bottom lip.

There's no slow or careful way to remove an undershirt, and anyway,  _he_ wants to be the one biting on that lip, preferably while Morse writhes underneath him. He pulls it off in a hurry, probably messing his hair up six ways to Sunday, but when he drops it on the floor he grins at the look on Morse's face, and the way his fingers dig into his crossed arms. His eyes flick down, briefly, to Peter's still-buckled belt and trousers. 

“Thought you might want to help with that.”

Its like his words break something, or Morse was waiting for permission, because he surges up and grabs him. Peter had been on the edge of blushing this whole time, but when those hands grasp his bare skin the heat blooms and there's no way of stopping it. Morse seems to like it, chasing it across his cheek and down his neck, lower, onto his sensitive stomach in a way that reminds Peter of something else entirely, something he wonders if Morse would ever do.

If he thinks about that for too long, the question won't need answering.

He cups Morse's head, guiding him back up, and once he's on his feet again he walks him backward. He pushes him down onto the bed, smiling at the way he bounces, and climbs on after him, dipping down to taste his mouth again. He drags his teeth over that lip and Morse moans; he does it again, just because he can.

“Peter,” Morse says, and he's pushing and pulling and Peter has no idea what he's trying to achieve so he sits up. The only place is astride Morse, so that's where he puts his weight, and its just a pleasant bonus that he can grind from here and watch Morse's mouth drop open.

God, they're both still in their bloody trousers.

“Shit,” mutters Morse. “Just, goddamit-”

“What?”

Morse doesn't answer in words, just glares at him and goes for his belt. The click of metal buckle is so quiet but it rings out like a warning signal they're both too far gone to obey. Morse gets Peter's trousers undone and then pulls him forward, laying out chest to chest, and pushes at the fabric. The only thing that will help here is an undignified wiggle, but when Peter tries it, shifting his trousers and underwear down just a bit, Morse lets out a quiet gasp and bucks. Peter wiggles again, grinning into Morse's neck, and feels his fingers clench on his back.

“Peter, get mine-”

He doesn't want to roll away, but its the only way he can get his hands between them to get to Morse's trouser buttons. He ends up on his side, trapped between Morse flat on his back and the wall, and he makes quick work of undoing them. They both kick off the offending fabric, and Peter can't help but stare.

If you'd told him a year ago his mouth would go dry at the sight of DC Morse laid out bare, he'd have laughed you out of the pub and all the way down the road. Morse!

But Morse is sort of beautiful. It's an awkward beauty, the kind Peter hadn't really considered before, his mind full of soft-skinned, buxom women, or long-legged sporty girls. Morse is different. He's a kind where limbs seem strung together with wire and bones jut, waiting to catch you unawares. A kind where freckles disappear under the blush of sex-flushed skin and hair stands every which way, begging to be held on to. A kind where bright eyes and a clever mouth draws him back in until they're moving together, and its better than a too-careful tumble with a bird, better than hurried, standing encounters in dark places where he can't be seen, better than anything.

This could be trouble, he thinks. Because it can be a tumble, it can be a hurried thing, but it can't be more than that. 

They can thrust together here – he'll allow them that – but they can't build on it. Can't dip into his deepest fantasies and put a name to acts that set his pulse racing. Or put a face to the anonymous other that co-stars in those fantasies, late at night when he can't sleep and the world isn't watching.

He comes with Morse's mouth muffling his cry, and breaks the kiss to pant as he snakes a hand down and around Morse, urging him on. He wonders how he's going to look at him tomorrow. Belligerent and spiky in the office, or white-faced over a damn corpse, when he knows what he looks like here. Golden and shining and undone.


End file.
